The Ballad of the Golden Boot

All Hermes feet they thread a pass 
Clean through a needle’s eye 
And weave their magic on the grass 
Opponents want to fly. 

The ice cool nerves of Dembélé 
Brain-freezing defenders. 
Rooney swooning on the telly  
France, he says, contenders.  

Wayne waxes his most lyrical  
The boot will be Mbappe’s  
Le Coq Gaulois hysterical  
He’s barely out of nappies. 

In fjord-land a demi god 
Will Haaland row them in? 
As slipp’ry as a North Sea cod 
A latter day Viking.  

He’s only short but resolute 
Add ‘ah’ he’s the Messi-ah.  
The Argie’s feet, so small, so cute 
He reigns and walks on water. 

Still Pelé haunts like Banquo’s ghost  
Brazil need a hero  
So who of these will score the most 
Vinicius (the junior one) or Carlos Casamiro? 

We haven’t mentioned Harry’s score  
The Kane we hope is able 
To rise above a flat back four  
And enter into fable.  

Forget the pens that led to tears  
The ruddy metronome 
The hand of god, the 60 years  
Of football’s coming home.  

The plane of shame, a knock out blow  
Humbled in the jungle. 
Let’s pray we stay and Congo go  
Please not another bungle. 

Here’s me reading it. Sorry about the crap French accent. Je suis désolé! It was recorded before England’s not-too-convincing victory over DR Congo.

I was challenged to write this by listeners to Pele’s Poetry Podcast which I co-host with the poet Pele Cox. Episode 10 was our World Cup-themed football poetry special.